


Supplication to a Higher Power

by voxDei



Category: The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996), The Road to El Dorado (2000)
Genre: Culture Shock, I should not be allowed near disney movies, M/M, Oral, Period-Typical Racism, Priest Kink, dubcon, intercural, zealot shipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 18:17:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10904799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voxDei/pseuds/voxDei
Summary: Judge Frollo is entrusted with the education of a recently procured heathen from across the ocean. Things do not go as planned.





	Supplication to a Higher Power

The ocean is cold, and cruel, and Tzekel-Kan decides that these pale men sheathed in metal cannot possibly be gods on the third day at sea. They failed to cleanse El Dorado, after all.

But that does not mean they were not sent by the gods, to bring him to a far greater destiny. 

The land they call Spain is bright and loud and their cities are crafted from wood and stone. He hardly even minds his bindings, staring wide-eyed at his surroundings. He is paraded like a trophy animal, and he stares down his nose at the foreigners in absurd dress that come to gawk at him. 

He feels more contempt than anything for what he sees.

Through half-overheard deals and what he suspects is a political arrangement, he changes hands and is put on another ship to some unknown destination. He does not hold out hope that he’ll be returned to his home; he’s not even sure he wants to go back. His own people betrayed him for false gods, and the memory makes him bare his teeth in rage. 

The air gets colder and damper and the port where they haul him off the ship is full of stone buildings and stone streets and stone-faced people, gray upon gray. He shivers in the pathetic drizzle, taking in the sights at the edges of the streets with mild disgust.

Corruption does not just fester here, this place is where it breeds. 

But his gaze is drawn by their apparent destination, a jagged arrangement of spires and spines that looks like it was hewn from a raw cliffside. Tzekel-Kan knows the stores of Xibalba, as he had devoured them since birth, but this is the closest he has ever come to seeing it for himself.

There is chatter among his captives, a hushed discussion with a portly man in washed-out, pale robes at the steps to this mountain of a place, and he meets their gazes with a haughty tilt of his head. He is lead into the temple — for it must be, no one builds things of such grandeur for anything but the divine — and then into the earth, down rough stone stairs lit by fire in brackets. 

He swallows, nervous despite himself, and his new captors do not speak. A metal door is laboriously unlocked and dragged open, and his wrists are unbound before shoving him inside. He lands on stone dusted with straw, and the door grinds shut with a sound that rattles his teeth.

It is dark, here, the only light coming from a lamp recessed into the ceiling, the fire kept away from prying fingers with a grate. He flexes his hands, sore from the ropes, and murmurs to himself.

His gods would not have brought him here without reason.  
Some measure of hours later, the door creaks open again, and an unseen voice announces, “Judge Claude Frollo.” 

Tzekel-Kan raises his head, reclining on the mound of straw that serves as furniture, and takes in the tall, sharp-faced man that enters. The shape of him is hidden beneath a draped black robe, pale hands clasped before him, and when Tzekel-Kan meets his eyes, they are cold and pitiless. 

How interesting.

“I have been tasked with your reformation,” the man — Frollo — says, eyeing him with distaste. He seems to be expecting a reply, but Tzekel-Kan merely watches him, smirking faintly.

Frollo takes a step forward and grasps Tzekel-Kan’s chin in one long hand, staring down at him. “Speak, heathen.”

Said heathen tsks. “Such somber dress, are your gods so morbid? Do they rule over nothing but the gloom of this place?” He draws himself up haughtily. “No wonder your people lust for our gold so.”

The judge makes no comment to that, shoving Tzekel-Kan back with a sneer. “As I thought, nothing but heretic nonsense out of you.” He straightens up, drawing a leatherbound book from his robes. “I can remedy that.”

Tzekel-Kan laughs; this man fancies himself a teacher! “I know all I need to, _Judge_.”

Frollo merely sneers and opens the book in one hand, sonorous voice intoning the words therein. Tzekel-Kan groans inwardly, letting his head fall back on the straw. He seeks to bore him to death!

As the judge drones on he lets his mind wander; a face like that, he wonders what the rest of him is like. What manner of person is this priest of pale gods?

_“And lo, did the lord strike them down, for their wickedness was great and had tainted the land.”_

 

—————————————

 

Frollo continues their sessions of reading and being read to, and Tzekel-Kan wheedles knowledge from him piece by piece; a judge is a lawman and priest in one, this city is called Paris, and there are no gods here but one, which seems remarkably spartan to Tzekel-Kan. One god to be both kind and cruel, savior and destroyer? What sense does that make?

And his curiosity about the man before him only grows. Such intensity he senses behind the dignified facade, there must be something more… He licks his lips the next time Frollo enters his cell, deciding to pry back that outer layer.

He brushes past the usual introduction of sermon-reading. “I still wish to know more about your people,” he says jovially, “I can only learn so much from that book.” 

Frollo sniffs. “Very well.” He stiffens slightly when Tzekel-Kan takes one of his hands and spreads it out palm-up, as if to compare. Long, pale fingers with skin like dry vellum against a slightly shorter hand, golden-brown and rough from work.

Tzekel-Kan turns Frollo’s spiderlike hand over in his. “You foreign people,” he muses, “look like you have never seen the sun in your lives.” He looks up, mocking. “If I didn’t know better, I would say you lived in caves in this damp, cold country of yours.”

Frollo sneers, fingers curling. “Meanwhile you wear your sins on your skin for all to see, your wickedness darkens you.” He frees his hand from the other man’s grip and strokes one high cheekbone with the pads of his fingers. Tzekel-Kan leans into his touch slightly, smiling like a snake.

“Mm, your people continue to puzzle me. Locked up in your temples, thinking deep thoughts, what glory does that give the gods? A bit of… exercise might do you some good.”

Frollo’s lip curls, his hand sliding down to cup Tzekel-Kan’s chin. The younger man smiles, mouth snapping open to trap Frollo’s thumb between his lips. 

The priest’s cheeks color, feeling the press of a tongue against his digit, and jerks his hand away. Tzekel-Kan only laughs softly and grabs the judge’s wrist before that hand can vanish, and presses a wet kiss to the palm.

And the shape of him, eyes lowered and tanned, muscled torso on display — the dog had refused all attempts to dress him decently — makes Frollo’s nostrils flare. He hisses, recoiling faintly and trying to free his hand. “Stop it. I won’t fall to your heathen devilry, I am not so _weak_ as all that.” 

“No?” Tzekel-Kan wheedles, one hand groping the front of the judges robes. “Then what is this?”

This is something that makes the judge’s cheeks flush with anger — and only anger, it must only be anger — and before Tzekel-Kan can react, he’s hauled off and struck him with an open hand, knocking him back.

His cheek stings like poison but Tzekel-Kan only laughs, cackling louder when Frollo swoops down at him, grasping his bare shoulders hard enough to put red lines into his skin.

“How dare you,” he snarls, “I am a man of god! If I have to teach you obedience by force, then by god I will do it!”

But Tzekel-Kan is stronger and fitter and easily breaks Frollo’s grip, surging up to shove the older man against the stone wall of the cell. “The gods sent me here to enact their will, and so it will be done.”

Frollo reels, bracing to retaliate, but Tzekel-Kan hits him like a battering ram and mashes their mouths together with a force that feels like something’s going to ignite. Frollo gasps for air, shoving at his assailant, but Tzekel-Kan’s tongue is insistent, prying its way between the judge’s lips, a warm, firm body pressed against his. 

And this is _bad_ , this is… _heinous_. His flesh is reacting without permission, hands grabbing at the heathen’s muscled torso without consulting him first, mouth falling open and vulnerable in a strangled moan. Tzekel-Kan makes a low, predatory noise and sucks on Frollo’s lower lip, and is pleasantly surprised when the judge bites back.

The heathen laughs and nips Frollo’s jaw, ducking his head to suck a throbbing red patch on that soft, moon-colored neck. Frollo groans, hands turning to desperate claws. “S-stop…”

In return, Tzekel-Kan bites, making the judge cry out, and swiftly drops to his knees, ignoring Frollo’s gasped protests.

Tzekel-Kan growls his frustration with the multitudes of fabric between him and his prize, but finally the cloth parts and he’s rewarded with a swell of flesh and a strangled protest from the judge above him. He gives Frollo no time to push him off, instead opening his greedy mouth and laving his tongue along the judge’s length, tasting salt and musk and flesh and closing his eyes in pleasure. 

Frollo’s quivering, hardly daring to breathe, and he’s pressed back against the wall as if hoping it will swallow him whole. His cock throbs in the younger man’s grip, burning away all his restraint, his temperance. He may as well feel the fires of hell lapping at his feet. 

Tzekel-Kan blinks, tilts his head. “Are you injured?”

Frollo flounders; only his soul is in pain. “W-what?”

The heathen rubs the pad of his thumb over the head of Frollo’s cock, making him gasp. “You seem… incomplete.”

Frollo sputters, outrage breaking through. The bastard’s not circumcised! “You…” he hisses, “you would not understand, _heathen_.”

Tzekel-Kan only tosses his head lightly, so the light catches the stripe of red tattooed from one cheekbone to the other. “I think I would, lord.”   
Before Frollo can react, he’s wrapped his tongue around the judge’s crown and sucked, and words flee him. His mouth drops open, gasping, and the accursed man below him hums in satisfaction, pursing his lips around Frollo’s length, the tight heat of his mouth indescribable. 

Thin fingers curl in his hair and Tzekel-Kan thinks his fun’s about to end but Frollo only snarls and shoves the heathen against him, burying his cock in the other man’s throat. Tzekel-Kan chokes, tries to breathe, and manages to acclimate before Frollo draws back and thrusts, fucking his face with a ferocity that surprises him. He didn’t think the old man had it in him.

“You _filthy_ ,” Frollo snarls, pulling painfully at his hair, “degenerate _heathen_. You defile this holy place like this, _how dare you_.”

Tzekel-Kan only cackles around the judge’s cock, delighted to get such a reaction out of him. He bucks against Frollo’s hold on his hair, sucking and scraping his teeth just enough to make the judge gasp and whine. His breath rasps, motions becoming faster and more desperate.

“You will… _burn_ for this, yes…” Frollo hisses, eyes alight with something like madness. “I will _make s-sure of it— ah!_ ” His hips jerk, Tzekel-Kan’s aquiline nose pressed into the graying fluff of his groin as the judge spills himself into the hellish heat of his throat.

He groans low, his fist in the heathen’s hair finally loosening, and Tzekel-Kan pulls himself free, coughing roughly. Frollo just pants, head tilted back against the stone wall, reeling. Tzekel-Kan pants for air, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “An excellent start, my lord!”

Frollo sputters, still dazed from orgasm. “Start?”

Tzekel-Kan stands, his lithe legginess making Frollo jerk back. “Indeed!” His grin is something manic. “I haven’t had my turn yet.”

The color drains from the judge’s face, leaving him a fascinating shade. “You wouldn’t!”

Tzekel-Kan grips the older man and spins him around, pressing him into the stone wall. “Here? No, there’s hardly time.” He presses against Frollo’s back, licking the shell of his ear. “Keep your legs together, lord. I’ll split you open another time.”

He can feel the shudder his words send through the judge, the harsh, open-mouthed pant that results, and he draws Frollo’s robe up to find his skinny thighs pressed together. Entirely no ass at all, what a shame. Sacred ball games really do build a beautiful set of muscles, he simply must introduce this country to the concept. Improve their collective physique, as it were.

As it is, so few of them are worthy of having their blood spilled to slake divine hunger. 

He presses himself up against the heat of the judge’s skin, inhaling the scent of candles and parchment and other, foreign smells. He huffs out a hot breath, rutting himself slowly against this pale spider of a man, and after a moment he guides his impatient cock to the cleft between Frollo’s thighs, pressing against it with a low grunt.

“Ah, yes, there…” he hisses, pushing between the judge’s legs, his own excretions slicking the way for his next slow thrust. He nuzzles the nape of Frollo’s neck, purring low and pleasurable at the pressure and heat of the other man’s thighs. He feels Frollo give a soft moan, Tzekel-Kan’s cock brushing against his own, and the heathen delightedly sinks his teeth into the back of the judge’s neck, producing a much more satisfactory sound.

The heathen’s calloused hands stroke up under the old judge’s robes, feeling his soft, doughy stomach and the pale lines of his chest. So soft, so soft, unused to work. This pale priest has never held down a fighting sacrifice, never wrestled a knife against a throat and felt his gods’ work be done through him. Tzekel-Kan licks languidly at the indents of his teeth in Frollo’s skin, feeling delighted power surging in his limbs, and purrs to feel the judge shuddering beneath him. 

“Oh, lord,” he hisses, one hand snaking up to cradle Frollo’s quivering throat, “the things I could show you…”

Frollo just groans, low and hot, and he can do nothing but let himself be fucked like this, the foreigner’s thick manhood sliding between his thighs with slick, wet sounds. Tzekel-Kan’s hips buck, forcing him against the stone, and he pants short and sharp and spills hot seed against Frollo’s legs, back arching in ecstasy. 

Frollo makes to throw him off, lip curled in shame and disgust, but the heathen purrs low and lascivious and kisses the jut of the old judge’s jaw wetly, nipping at his soft skin. “Now don’t fight me, lord. I believe we have… similar aims. This city—”

But Frollo snarls and bucks him off, whirling to grab his arm and twisting him around so that their positions are reversed, Tzekel-Kan shoved against the stone wall with one arm wrenched behind his back, Frollo seething behind him.

“Heathen dog,” the judge hisses, twisting Tzekel-Kan’s arm until his shoulder threatens something drastic, “this was _nothing_. I will not allow myself to be drawn further into temptation by _consorting_ with you for any purpose, I— _ghh._ ”

He cuts off in a strangled sound as Tzekel-Kan uses his proximity to the judge’s half-hard member to grind his ass against it, mockingly. Frollo throws him down hard onto the flagstones, spitting with rage. “You are beyond redemption, dog!”

He stalks to the door, ignoring the stickiness between his thighs. “Forget this night. It never happened.” The heavy iron door swings open and closed again with a final clang, punctuated by Tzekel-Kan’s manic laughter.


End file.
